But I got to Stamford Bridge early yesterday. And like I say, you see some funny things. About 10 minutes before kick-off, a ballyhoo man with a clipboard and a furry mike came onto the pitch and started making announcements.

It was like the bit at the end of a Church of England service. Such and such is getting married'. The fete is cancelled'. The vestry is not for sleeping in'.

The bloke at Chelsea had some strange things to announce. First up: the Swedish supporters' club was over for a visit. They had an award for Frank Lampard. I don't know about you but I would have thought that bringing a Swedish supporters' club to Chelsea was asking for trouble. Talk about bring your daughter to the slaughter'. This smacked of Philanderers FC: meet the Blondes'.

Next, a bloke in a lion suit and a silver space blanket ran onto the pitch. (I'm pretty sure it was a bloke in a lion suit and not a real lion.) Mr Ballyhoo said the lion had just run the London Marathon. I had laboured long under the impression that the lion was a beast suited more to the quick sprint than the long chase. Still. This one had done the business, so hats off.

Anyway, the point is this: at Stamford Bridge yesterday I was concentrating unusually hard on the pre-match niceties. The amuses bouches. The reason? I didn't expect much of the main event.

In the three-course meal that is the title run-in proper (by which I mean games 36, 37 and 38), Stoke were always going to be as easily digestible an entrée to Chelsea as Spurs proved hard to stomach for Manchester United.

Chelsea were always expected to devour Stoke, to suck them down with barely a slurp. And that, to a neutral, ain't much to watch.

Easy meat means no nervous tension. It means no sicking up on the sidelines necessary. It means lovely, limited, long-throw-in-reliant Stoke, served up nicely plated and piping hot. Not merely edible but delicious.

Admittedly for the first 20 minutes looked like Chelsea might be off their food. Ashley Cole, Nicolas Anelka and Didier Drogba all spat out chances they ought to have wolfed down.

It was like Chelsea were sitting down to dinner but missing their mouths with every forkful, spattering Premier League spaghetti all over their chins.

But then, after 23 minutes, Solomon Kalou put a nice easy header away. And so the feast began. Eight minutes, later Kalou slid another one home. Then the man they used to call Fat Frank banged in a penalty. Yummy, said the Chelsea fans. (Actually they used fruitier terms than that. A bloke 10 yards away from me celebrated the first goal by shouting to Tony Pulis that he was a slag'. Not at the dinner table, dear, as my mum used to say.)

On it went. Gobble, gobble. 3-0 at half-time, 7-0 at the end. A hat-trick for Kalou. A truly beautiful second goal for Lampard. Chelsea slurped down Stoke like a half-dozen oysters: no chewing necessary.

They did so, of course, knowing that the main course is to come next weekend. Next weekend, Manchester United will be dining out at Sunderland and that has the look of an easy meal, even without Wayne Rooney licking his lips at the table.

But Chelsea's lunch date — a potentially nightmarish Sunday visit to Anfield — looks rather more like one of those special Big Mamma' jumbo patties you get in American hamburger joints. A hot pound of cow flesh. The biggest bun your imagination can deal with. A gnobbly, ugly gherkin in the mix (Steven Gerrard) and a chippy fat bloke with a goatee working the griddle, determined to defeat you, mainly because he can. (Yes, Rafa, that's you.)

It makes you bilious just to think about it. Chelsea have choked on Liverpool too many times in recent years for anyone to assume they will go up there and win with ease. It is a game which will require intense mastication. Gut-busting and bile. Beads of sweat and big deep breaths.

But if Chelsea go to Liverpool and eat the Scousers all up, then they may fully expect to race through dessert, back at the Bridge against Wigan on 9 May. No matter what United do, the competitive eating contest will be won — deservedly — in West London. United really will be sick, then. But Chelsea will be full and satisfied.